People had noticed. Yelling. A woman screamed nearby. Not Nell. Block, duck, lunge, retreat. He caught Gray Sweatshirt’s fist, whipped it up, over, around, sent the guy flying over the hood of the car. The black guy came at him again with a length of pipe. It whipped down. Duncan lurched to the side. The pipe whooshed past him, displacing air, and shattered the passenger-side window. Pebbles of glass flew.
Duncan darted in, grabbed the end of the pipe before it could work up to another swing and twisted the thing up, torquing the guy’s arm and sending him bouncing over the hood of the car. The car surged forward, pitching the guy off and onto the street. He rolled, howling.
Tires shrieked as the car peeled around the corner and sped away. The black guy dragged himself up and fled, limping, the heavy, irregular slap of his rubber-soled shoes retreating into the distance.
Gray Sweatshirt came at him with a spinning back kick. In ducking back to avoid it, Duncan lost his center, stumbled back and went down onto his knees. Fuck. The guy leaped for him, eyes lit up.
Crack. Nell had swung her plastic shopping bag, and whatever was in it had connected with the guy’s face. He let out a hoarse shout and stumbled back, hand over his nose, which streamed blood.
Duncan rolled up onto his feet, lunged to grapple—
Gun. He stopped, reeling. Fighting for balance. Hands up, open.
Gray Sweatshirt held a pistol on them, in a shaking, sideways two-handed grip he’d learned from watching bullshit action films. But at point-blank range, even the guy’s compromised aim from the stupid grip wouldn’t save them. That Glock 9mm would leave a big hole.
Duncan scooped Nell back behind him with his arm. “Easy,” he soothed. “Easy.”
“Fuck you, you fuck.” The guy’s trembling voice was thin and high, bubbling and phlegmy with the blood running down his throat. “Back off, or I’ll shoot you like a fuckin’ dog. And then I’ll shoot the bitch.” He backed away from them, gun wavering. He swung it in a wild arc around himself that sent all the looky-loos who’d gathered around into a screaming, scattering panic. Like a bunch of startled pigeons.
“You don’t need to shoot,” Duncan said quietly. “Who hired you?”
“Some stupid fuck. Shut up. Don’t talk to me.” The guy backed away farther. “Back off. Everybody. Get the fuck back.” He turned, suddenly, and ran like a double-jointed cheetah, his legs a blur.
Nell sagged down onto the sidewalk. Duncan sank to his knees to break her fall, held her up. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and realized, embarrassed, that his finger shook too much to punch in the number. Shit. He was getting soft. Going civilian.
It took a few tries, but he finally got Gant’s phone ringing. Then the car pulled up, and Gant himself unfolded his long, lanky self from the seat, holding up the ringing phone. Duncan stopped the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket. The asshole was long gone, but he relayed the info with weary precision. “Three of them. One’s rabbiting down Great Jones Street. Blond, six one, jeans, gray sweatshirt, goatee. Armed and dangerous. Glock 9mm. The other two are long gone. One was a black man, tall, thin. He ran, too. The car was a silver Jeep Cherokee. Busted front passenger window. Didn’t get the plates. Didn’t get a look at the driver.”
Gant relayed the info his radio. He was a square-jawed guy, with cold blue eyes and sandy hair, buzzed off short. He looked down at Nell, still curled up on the sidewalk. “This is her?” he asked.
Duncan pulled Nell to her feet. “Nell, Lt. John Gant, of the NYPD.”
She swallowed, coughed. “Ah, hi.”
“You okay, miss?” Gant asked.
“Been better,” she croaked. “I’ll be fine. I think.”
“Did he hit you? Hurt you?”
“She broke his nose,” Duncan announced, in ringing tones. “She broke that pig-fucking son of a bitch’s nose.”
Gant blinked at the fierce pride in Duncan’s voice. “Uh, wow. Hot damn. How’d you do that, miss?”
Nell held up the plastic shopping bag, and fished out a massive volume that she could not even hold in one hand alone. “The complete works of E. E. Cummings,” she said. “Just picked it up at the Barnes & Noble. Ten percent member discount.” She startled to giggle. “Oh, God. I had no idea what a good deal I was getting.”
Her face crumpled, her hands covered her face. Duncan stared at her in helpless dismay. Fuck. Again. Gant gave him the hairy eyeball, and jerked his hand toward Nell, snapping his fingers sharply.
“Hug her, you asshole!” he mouthed.
Duncan scowled at him and grabbed Nell, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened against him, but she didn’t jerk away.
And her soft body felt amazingly good next to his. He was panting, raw and zinging with combat adrenaline, bruised and pounded and scraped and generally fucked up, but still, she felt so goddamn good.
His arms tightened. He inhaled the smell of her hair and then focused on the blood and imbedded grit and grime on his own filthy knuckles. She shook in his arms. A fine, high-frequency vibration.
Don’t get yourself all excited, butthead. She’s traumatized.
Gant harrumphed. “Fucking cretin,” he muttered. “Have to tell you everything.”
Duncan flipped his friend the bird behind Nell’s back, and pressed his nose into those perfumed curls again. Inhaling her.
The next couple of hours were long and hard, down at police headquarters. She spent a long time on his cell phone, pouring her heart out to her sisters, first one, then the other. Hashing the whole thing out and filing the report took a tediously long time, and after a while Duncan started eying Nell’s pale, stiff face and staring eyes and wondered uneasily if he’d been stupid not to insist that she get medically evaluated. She’d said she was fine. Maybe a bruise or two. But he hadn’t considered psychological damage. He was as tough as boot leather himself. Used to rough treatment. He’d forgotten what a tooth-rattling shock violence was to normal human beings.
Her hand was icy cold. He rubbed it between his. “I need to get some food and a good stiff drink into her,” he said to Gant. “Can we finish this up another time?”
Gant studied Nell with narrowed eyes. “Miss D’Onofrio, do you have someone to stay with tonight?” He shot a keen glance at Duncan. “A family member, maybe?”
She looked lost, chewing on her soft, cushy lower lip. “Ah…”
“She’s staying with me,” Duncan blurted.
Nell blinked at him, startled. He stared back, willing her not to fight it. It seemed so obvious to him, so inevitable. So right.
She let out a long breath, in short, jerky segments, and nodded. “With him,” she murmured to Gant.
A jolt of hot triumph shook Duncan. Urgency, too. He wanted to get her home now. Trap her into his lair. Before she changed her mind.
He made sure the car service was waiting before he let her leave the building. Snipers could be after her, for all he knew. He bundled her hastily into the car and gave the driver his address.
“Wait,” Nell said. “My place, first.”
He rounded on her, ready for battle. She put her fingers over his mouth. “Shhh. Don’t start. I need to touch base. I need fresh clothes.”
“I’ll buy you clothes.”
“Not at one in the morning, you won’t,” she said. “And I need to check my answering machine. And pick up my laptop.”
“Those guys know where you live,” he growled. “I don’t want to come across like I’ve got no balls, but I wouldn’t mind avoiding any more mortal combat this evening. If it’s not too fucking much to ask.”
She tapped his lips again, gently. “Don’t be sarcastic. I am very aware of your big balls. But I doubt very much they’ll be lying in wait for me there tonight. We’ll park right outside the door, we’ll see if anyone’s there, we’ll only be inside for a few minutes. Please, Duncan.”
He settled back against the seat, defeated but disapproving. Her hand was no longer on his mouth. He missed it. It was almost worth goading her, to see if she would try to silence him again.